Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 71

Bob and Murray

 

Before you read any further, you have to be able to accept two facts:
1.      That cats can talk.
2.      That a cat would walk around in a pair of fine boots.
I know what you’re thinking. No cat would ever submit to wearing an item of clothing.
Go with me on this…
A wealthy miller had three sons. A very good thing, except when it comes time to divide an estate. Then all sorts of complications arise.
And so it would prove with our story. When the miller died, his eldest son, Harold, received the mill.
His second son, Jerrold, a fine pair of mules.
And the third son, Bob, a cat.
I have to admit, here, that Bob, though he loved cats in general and that particular cat…particularly, was just a bit perturbed. I mean, what on earth was he to do with a cat for an inheritance?
I had the same thought.
As he was sitting with his head in his hands contemplating that very thing, the cat (let’s call him Murray) spoke to him. “Master?” it said in a very cat-like purr. “Bring me a pair of boots and I shall make your fortune for you.”
Of course the astonished young man (when he got past his astonishment) did exactly that—purchased a pair of fine boots that perfectly fitted his fur baby.
Because who is going to deny their cat such a simple request?
Ahem…
Murray, the cat proceeded to go out and bag a rabbit. (Hunter talk for hunter-ing and killing.) He then presented said rabbit to the king. With the Marquis of Carabas’ compliments.
O-kay.
You’re probably wondering where Bob got his new name.
I have only this to say: Murray is one clever cat.
For the next few weeks, Murray performed a similar service—delivering dead, but succulent animals to the king. In the Marquis’ name.
Let’s just say that, after about the second day, he had the king’s attention.
One bright and sunny day, the king decided to take his sweet and intelligent daughter out for a carriage ride/tour of the kingdom.
Because it was bright and sunny.
Murray, who in this story appears to be omniscient, (It’s a short leap from cat wearing boots to cat knowing everything. Am I right?) noticed.
And quickly devised a plan.
He instructed his young master to shed his clothing and dive into the river.
I’m quite sure there was a bit of conversational back-and-forth-ing, but the up-shot was that Bob, clothes-less, ended up in the river as his cat requested.
Murray then took his master’s rather ragged attire and stuffed it somewhere unfind-able.
Then ran out on the road and flagged down the king’s carriage.
“Help,” he shrieked in his loudest cat voice. “My master has been robbed!”
Of course, Murray was recognized. And of course, the king ordered his servants to fish Bob/the Marquis out of the water and dress him in the finest clothes. And invite him to join the cheerful touring party.
Where the king’s daughter (we’ll call her Jill) took one look at the sweet and intelligent young man and fell heart-first in love.
Good so far.
But the story’s not over yet.
Murray then ran ahead of the carriage and, stopping anyone in the vicinity of the road requested they tell the king the land they worked belonged to the Marquis of Carabas.
Which they did.
Finally, Murray came to a great and handsome palace.
Owned by an ogre.
Now, this ogre was the actual owner of all the lands that had just been ‘claimed’ by the 'Marquis of Carabas'. He ruled his lands with an actual iron fist because this ogre had one quite remarkable ability: He could change himself into anything.
No wonder the people were happy to accommodate Murray in his request to claim a different landowner.
Yikes.
Murray, more brave than…well…anything, marched straight into that palace and demanded a meeting with the owner.
The astonished servants complied and soon Murray and the ogre were face to face.
Well…sort of…
“I can change into anything,” said the ogre.
Probably not the way I would have started the conversation, but then I’m not an ogre.
“Interesting,” Murray replied. “Can you change into a lion?”
“Pah! That’s easy!” And he did.
A rather scary one with sharp teeth and claws.
Murray took a couple of steps back. “Very realistic. And rather scary.” He stroked his kitty chin. “Can you change into something very big?”
“Pah! Child’s play!” And suddenly an elephant was standing there in the ogre’s front room.
Murray frowned. “That is very good. But it’s easy to change into big things. How about something very tiny? Like…erm…a mouse?”
“Pah…!”
And that’s the last thing the ogre said. Because as soon as his furry little mouse body appeared, Murray was on it like a…cat on a mouse. And devoured it.
Just then, the king’s carriage arrived.
Quickly, Murray ran to the front door to welcome the king and his daughter (and Bob) inside the newly-acquired palace of the Marquis of Carabas.
I know you’re wondering how Murray got the servants to fall in with the scheme.
Let’s just say they were infinitely more excited about serving sweet and kind Bob than they had ever been serving an ogre and leave it there, shall we?
The king was properly impressed and, a short time later, when Jill and Bob announced their engagement, happily gave his blessing.
The country prospered. Largely due to the fact that Bob/Marquis put Murray in charge of everything.
Because doesn’t life always go a bit smoother when the cat is in charge?

Daddy's Girl

We have a dog.Hmmm…that doesn’t quite cover it. Let me start over.
A fur baby owns us.
Better.
This fur baby came to us at the age of 8 weeks almost two years ago. A little black and white, bear-cub of cuteness.
And immediately captured our senior hearts.
A little background…
Something told me we needed a dog.
We had always had dogs. But our Aldo had crossed the rainbow bridge a couple of years before and we assumed our glorious dog-days were behind us.
As were our walks outside.
I realized that if we didn’t have an excuse to get us into the great outdoors, we’d become hopeless couch-seniors—TV remote fused to one hand—rooted and unable to move.
There was also an added incentive. Apart from his family’s sweet little Banjo when Husby was a teenager, he had never had a dog that was ‘his’.
Oh, our family had tons of dogs. Usually Old English Sheepdogs. And usually a plethora (good word) at the same time.
But none were ‘his’.
With his retirement and subsequent ‘being-at-home-all-the-time-now’ this was his chance.
It took a couple of weeks of convincing. But Husby finally relented.
Sooo…Pandy.
Did you ever have a plan that worked? Where all the planets aligned and balls dropped into their proper places and order?
It happens occasionally.
And it did here.
These two are inseparable. Where Husby is, Pandy is not far away. Under his desk in his office. Lying beside his chair in the family room. Watching closely from an acceptable (dogs aren’t allowed in the dining room) distance at mealtimes. Out in the yard when yard-work is indicated. Riding in the truck with him to appointments or run errands. Waiting patiently while he does whatever it is humans do when doggies are told to ‘stay’ and not allowed out of the truck.
Yep. Where he goes, Pandy is…ahem…underfoot.
Then…yesterday.
Husby was out at the Agriculture Grounds taking some measurements. A member of the Ag Board, he has been organizing the restoration of a period barn on the property and needed to take some measurements.
Pandy was along.
Because.
For some time, she had followed him around, keeping a watchful eye on his doings.
He set up a ladder and climbed into the loft.
Pandy sat and stared up at the hole that had swallowed her daddy.
Then he pulled the ladder up and into the loft so he could look at the ceiling some forty feet from where his little girl sat.
His last glimpse of her was big, brown eyes looking up at him from the ground so far below.
He finished his tasks and returned to ground level.
His fur baby had disappeared
He walked around, calling her.
No Pandy.
The featherings of alarm.
Then he looked toward the truck.
There she was, waiting patiently as she does whenever he takes her somewhere she isn’t allowed to follow. She knew that, at some time, he would return, so this was the safest—and surest—place to wait for her daddy.
Smart doggins.
I just watched the two of them disappear on yet another jaunt. Husby with the leash around his neck. Pandy hopping and jumping with excitement.
Yep. You know that ‘something’ which told me we needed a dog?
It was right.

Melty Deliciousness

                                                                                     The Pass Dairy as it looks today. 
My Father-in-Law (hereinafter known as FIL) loved ice cream.Maybe I should re-word.My FIL LOVED ice cream.Better.Nearly every meal ended with the creamy deliciousness.No matter how large the portions had been.In his words: “Ice cream just melts and goes in the cracks.”Snack times must always include some form of the treat.If one was traveling, one could always find someone, somewhere, who could provide a scoop or a spiral.And that is where this story starts . . .FIL knew the best places in all of Southern Alberta to buy ice cream.He would be driving and suddenly turn off the main road.When questioned, the answer inevitably contained some form of the words: Ice cream. And Need. Some. Right. Now.Many, many places catered happily (and satisfactorily) to his passion.But his particular favourite was The Pass Dairy.In the Crowsnest Pass.More specifically in the town of Bellevue in the Crowsnest Pass.For a dollar, they would give you an ice cream cone that was truly heroic in size.In fact, they took pride in the fact that theirs was the largest, best cone anywhere.Something FIL challenged them on regularly.On this particular day, he had gone into the little shop.And emerged with a cone piled high with a perfect spiral of soft, melting deliciousness.High.I think we could properly insert the word: Massive.Mother-in-Law stared at it, wide-eyed. “Ray,” she said. “If you eat all that, you’ll be sick!”FIL just looked at her and smiled. “You know better than that!”He was right. 

Travel Signs

We had spent a few days with our coastal son.

The one who lives in paradise.
He is fun, funny and a deep, deep thinker.
He is also the one who remembers everything.
At the top of his list of memories during this visit?
His Dad’s Dad-isms. The strange things his dad told him during his upbringing that he realized, belatedly, really couldn’t be true.
But now are an integral part of his childhood.
If not a part of reality.
First?
A few road signs:
The ‘Deer en pointe’ sign.
A sure warning that there are deer practicing—or performing—ballet in the vicinity.
Occasionally in the middle of the road.
Hence the sign.
Next?
The Snakes on Road sign.
Which gives a warning and also a estimate of number.
But you have to look closely to find them.
When they aren’t slithering down the middle of the road.
Just FYI. We’ve never seen them slithering down the road.
Those signs are erroneous.
Then the Sign which, to the rest of the word says: Loose Gravel.
To Dad, it said “Loo-Che Gravel-lay”.
An Italian fellow who obviously haunts roads in poor repair.
Enough signs . . .
Now we move on to a couple of animals that only Dad knows.
The first and foremost: The rock gopher.
A small rodent-appearing animal that bores holes through solid rock.
I know you’ve seen the holes.
Now you know how they occur.
And, finally, the side-hill gouger.
These are cows seen grazing on the sides of steep hills or mountains.
Their legs are shorter on one side than the other.
Thus their ability to walk comfortably on those steep sides of mountains.
Their only draw-back is their inability to turn the other way.
That would be—a disaster.
And would cause the inevitable, but rarely seen, rolling cow slide.
Dad-isms.
What your kids remember instead of real facts.
And that’s just fine.

Snack of Choice

When Bro and I got home from school,

For both of us, the standing rule

Was finding something good to eat,

A goodie, nosh, a snack, a treat.

 

When mom was there, we were so glad,

She’d something warm (and never bad),

With cookies, cakes, to name a few,

To savour. Smiling as we’d chew.

 

But, sadly, when our mom was out,

We had no treats to talk about,

And Bro and I were on our own,

Our snackless state we two’d bemoan.

 

 But soon we learned to seek and find,

We knew our mom would never mind,

His choice was sardines. In a can.

I’d shudder. Try a different plan.

 

Soft bread. I’d toast it just a bit,

Light brown was best, I do admit,

Then quickly, ‘fore it cooled (what dread!),

Some peanut butter, thickly spread.

 

It melted finely to my toast,

T’was just the way I liked it most,

And, to this day, I do recall

That first taste, best one of them all.

 

I love it still. Just yesterday,

Some peanut butter came my way,

Via bread and knife and jar,

Still my favourite snack by far.

 

But now I ask of all of you,

Given choice, what would you do?

A sardine tin (like my dear Bro),

Or peanut butter. How’d you go?

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not? 

Next week, for fun (and not dismay),We'll celebrate Be Nasty Day!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Peanut Butter Day (March 1) TODAY!
Be Nasty Day (March 8)
Pi(e) Day (what else would it be?) (March 15)
World Poetry Day (March 22)
Something on a Stick Day (March 29)
Read a Road Map Day (April 5)
Favorite invention (From Mimi) (April 12)
National Garlic Day (April 19)
The ocean or beach (From Mimi) (April 26)
The best thing about spring (From Mimi) (May 3)

Germ Warfare

You can almost see those germs...

Germs are a big thing right now.When I was growing up, germs were something that lived in dog’s mouths.
Or cats.
Or any animals.
I was cautioned to avoid them.
Living on a ranch, that was a lot of avoiding.
It didn’t occur to me that there could be germs in someone else’s (human) mouth.
That paranoia didn’t show up until a few years later. When one of my friends wiped my germs off her pop bottle before she took a drink.
Hmmm.
On with my story . . .
Supper time.
That special moment in the day wherein everyone gathers at the table to enjoy a home-cooked meal.
And some great visiting.
Okay, well, that’s what happens in the Tolley household.
Notice I didn’t say a great home-cooked meal.
Because, let’s face it, some of my experiments fail to jell.
Ahem . . .
On this particular night, I had made something that passed the ‘yummy’ test.
But also crossed the ‘sloppy’ barrier.
Most of us did well.
Four-year-old granddaughter (or GD4 for short) didn’t fare as well.
And needed tidying.
Her mother licked her finger and swiped at the little girl’s cheek.
The rest of us thought nothing of it.
We were obviously wrong.
GD4 looked passively at her mother in the midst of her cleaning. “You know, Mom, you just got germs all over my face!”
Her mom stopped. “Oh.” She looked at me. “Oops.”
I should probably mention here that GD4’s face failed to fall off.
Or turn green.
But we had been informed.
Germs.
Coming from a four-year-old near you.

Equally Bad

 

Across the land, to one and all, the famine had a grip,

And rich and poor alike were in the famine’s membership,

And Widow Bette and teenaged son (named Jack, for all who care…)

Were skating rather closely to the edge of starved despair.

 

In desperation, Bette told Jack, “Take Emily...” (their cow)

“…and sell her.” (with the proceeds, they would get along somehow),

Obedient, the young man took the cow and started out,

Not knowing that the strangest tale was just about to ‘sprout’.

 

A stranger stopped the lad a mile or so along the way,

And asked him ‘whither, he was to’ on such a lovely day,

Jack indicated Emily and told him what was up,

And why Jack had embarked upon this personal ‘roundup’.

I’m sure you’ve heard the story: how our Jack endorsed the sale,

A cow for ‘magic’ beans. You know, a mistake of grandest scale.

How his disappointed mother threw those beans out on the lawn,

Then cried herself to sleep believing all her hope was gone.

 

You have to know those beans grew up. A stalk into the sky,

And Jack thought he'd explore (and have adventures by and by),

He climbed up to another land, where all folks were immense,

And there he pilfered lots of stuff--in situations tense.

 

That boy, he needed stealth, because you know, our little Jack

Was just the size and shape to be a giant’s midday snack,

It didn’t stop him stealing, though it kept him on the run,

Whene’er he heard the giant’s voice say, “Fee! Fie! Foe! And Fum!”

 

Then finally, he took the item Giant treasured most,

 (For evenings when relaxing or when parties he would host…)

A magic harp, the player of the sweetest music e’er,

Whose loss would surely fill our giant’s heart with deep despair!

 

The harp cried for his ‘Master!’ as Jack began to bear him hence,

It spurred our giant on to a more feverish defense,

He followed our young thief right down the beanstalk growing there,

And where the boy did lead, he neither thought about. Or cared.

 

But Jack was quick and reached the bottom. Turned and grabbed his axe,

Kept nearby for such things. (Now we've reached the tale's climax!)

When swinging frantically, he fin’ly chopped the stalk and all,

Not even mighty giants could survive that nasty fall.

Then Jack and Mom were happy as a family could be,

With all the stuff Jack stole they both could live quite comfortably,

Now I’ve heard theories claiming that the Giant stole them first,

The larger thief or small, opinions? Who d’you think was worst?!

Today is Fairy Tale Poetry Day!

Hop on over to my friend Karen to see what she posted!

You'll be happy you did...

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: The Moral is Morals

Reflections

Husby and I were on a holiday on beautiful Vancouver Island.Our son lives there and as often as we could, we’d go out to visit.
To...ummm...see our son.
Not to walk the beaches and watch the ever-changing ocean or hike the endless woodland trails and visit the centuries-old trees or take a boat and deep-sea fish or gorge on freshly-caught cod and hand-made fries at our favourite restaurant...
Which incidentally makes the best coconut-cream pie I’ve ever tasted.
Just FYI.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah. Island. Holiday.
Husby.
One night, we were returning with our son from a day of rambles.
Our car was following the twisting, turning road into beautiful Courtenay.
A last long curve.
A curve marked by a line of reflective poles.
That lit up brightly as our car lights caught them.
One. Then the next. Then the next.
Each going dark as we passed them.
Watching them, I remembered something . . .
I was four and traveling with my family.
Nose pressed against the glass because I had been looking at a book but it had grown too dark to see anything.
Oh, and also because seat belts hadn’t been invented yet.
Every so often, we would pass by some small posts that lit up as we approached.
It was magical.
First one.
Then another.
I stared at them long and hard.
How did they do that?
How did they know to light up just as we were passing?
I thought about it.
Then finally figured it out.
Somewhere inside, there were little people who waited until we approached.
Then lit them just for us.
It was very kind of them.
And I was sure to thank each one.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
Mom looked at me. “Who are you thanking?”
I pointed. “The little pole people.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t ask.
She was used to me.

Tap-Toeing

Shoes hide.

They do.
Especially when there is something important that they need to be at.
School.
Church.
Movie night.
Going outside.
There are solutions.
Some of which are—creative—
Little sister was getting ready for Church.
She had been scrubbed shiny.
Groomed.
Dressed.
The only thing keeping her from heading out the door to the waiting car was a pair of Sunday shoes.
Oh, she could find her ratty every day sneakers.
Her manure-y boots.
Even her tall, black rain boots.
But nothing that resembled (or smelled) like it could be worn to church.
She had asked everyone.
Including—as a final act of desperation—Mom.
Who had responded with her patented: “I have no idea where I left them when I wore them last.”
In tears of despair, she sat down on the floor.
And that’s when she saw them.
The shiny tips of her black tap shoes.
Hmmm . . .
Not smelly.
Gleaming with care.
Definitely church-approved.
She grabbed them and put them on, jumped to her feet and headed for the door.
And that’s when their one drawback became apparent.
Remember when I said ‘tap’ shoes?
Well, that comes into play here.
In church generally, we are, for want of a better term, quiet.
And tap shoes...aren’t.
Let’s just say that Mom and Dad could keep track of everywhere she went.
And everything she did.
As could the rest of the congregation.
Yep. Creative solutions.
Sometimes more creative than solution.
But definitely memorable.

Looking At It

 

They had all been at their cousin’s birthday party.

It had been a much-anticipated opportunity for fun and games.And had delivered on every level.They had played in the pool.Dashed through the sprinklers.Had a water fight.Screamed and laughed through several games.Gorged on food and treats.Sang and stuffed their faces with rich, gooey birthday cake and meltingly-creamy and delicious ice cream.Tired, but entirely satisfied, they were lined up, ready to go home.It was then they received the last perfect surprise to what had been a perfect day.A large, loaded—identical—treat bag.Brimming with anticipation, they dashed out to their car and their waiting Mama.Submitted to the mundane but necessary process of seating and buckling.Then, at last, the opening of that last hurrah.That sweet, final cap on the day.The icing on the cake, so to speak.Sister dipped in her hand and emerged, holding a large, hand-frosted cookie.“I got a flower!” she exclaimed.Brother did the same.Pulled out the same. “I got a flower, too!”Little sister reaching eagerly into her bag of treats.Grabbed her flower cookie by the other end and pulled it out and held it aloft excitedly.“I got a squid!”Life.It’s all in how you look at it.